Jalcina turned to gaze out the window. It was a sight of the moving throng of humanity in Arthum. Below there were carts moving goods with great beasts she had only seen here in the lowlands. Men and women moved along, some darting in and out through the crowd. Far away, she heard laughter.
“These are your people.”
“Yes. And they will be your people.”
“Not everyone wants that.”
“I want it and that is enough.”
34
Jalcina awoke, eyes becoming wide in the dark, as she realized yet again she was asleep in his arms. Staring down at his face when she sat up, it made no sense. Not his face, but how comfortable she was sleeping in his bed. The firepot in the room had gone out and the room was cold, yet she crawled from under the covers and padded over to it on the balls of her feet, not wishing to disturb his rest. The preparations were drawing to a close and so many people from his conquered kingdoms were already there. Kings who bowed their heads to him and brought him gifts in hopes he would show them favor. Generals who told old war stories of how they had taken this or that castle. Her head spun with the details crammed into it.
She should have summoned a servant to light the fire, but at home there would have been no one but herself, her father, or her siblings to do such a thing. Though her Father was Lord of their land, she had not been raised to have someone do things for her at all times. She had always been taught to care for herself. Her Father expected it of her. Lecern encouraged it when he could.
The flint sent out tiny sparks, some settled and disappeared, others continued as little red stars on the blackened wood. All she needed was for one to catch. Blowing softly, she urged the little ember to warm and burrow into the coals. Burrow in and make fire. One, then two followed her coaxing and the beginning of a warm glow touched at her face. Placing another small chunk from the pot at the side upon it, she blew more, stroking at it carefully to see it burn more brightly. Once it had truly caught, she held her hands out to it before rubbing her arms with her warmed palms. The thin gown she had worn was stained, mostly with thin streaks of sweat. Hugging her legs, she turned her face back toward the bed and drew her breath in deeply, fear striking through her veins. He was sitting there watching her in the dark, nothing showing from the shadows but his eyes, tiny bloody orbs hanging in blackness.
“Why do you watch me so?” she gasped out, snatching her face back to the fire, one hand covering her thudding heart.
“May I not watch you?” The change in her attitude gave her away. This was no longer his Leviana he spoke with, but the girl Jalcina, the sweet girl who was nothing more than a vessel for his beloved’s soul. Yet he had to treat her gently. Until Leviana was well and truly in control, he could not allow Jalcina to run away. He would not lose Leviana again. “Jalcina,” her name was foreign to him after so long of watching Leviana move in her body. The grace was different, still there, but not the grace of a warrior, rather the grace of a girl in a body that responded well. Jalcina could become a warrior, yet he did not want this girl, he wanted his Leviana. He wanted the woman he had lost from his pride. The room was all shadows, some of them moving now as the fire grew. The ones at the edges of the room, however, they were like something painted onto the walls, all unmoving. “Come back to bed,” he called to her, though it was hardly a command.
Shivering, the warmth of bed seemed so good, yet it was his bed. She could not allow herself to be drawn into whatever trap it was he created for her. Time had passed, but she could not remember what had passed in it. She raised her chin and stared at him with highly critical eyes.
“What did you do to me?” There was no question she felt he was to blame for the gaps in time, the lapses in which she might have been dreaming. “I,” she began to speak again. “The Light and the Darkness.”
“Jalcina,” he called her name again, chiding in his tone. “Hush and come back to bed, you tire.” They shared the same body. It only made sense she would be aware of the passage of time even if she had no way of accounting for it. Did he feel even the smallest shred of pity for her, knowing she was losing the battle for control of her own limbs? Yes, but he did not wish for her to win. Let her lose quickly and slip away into the darkness truly. Let his dearest Leviana take her form and keep it forever so they could complete the Fate they created.
How could he be so calm? The confused girl rubbed her face, trying to wipe away the confusion refusing to die. She had been in the pool with him. The Light and the Darkness, they had lived before, they were cursed to live again, it all washed round in her head like a whirlpool until she felt spots in her eyes and in her head dragging her down again into sleep. Her arms and legs moved as if leaden, though she did rise and try to return to the bed as bidden. Halfway back, she collapsed, a moan escaping her lips as her form tottered and then sank to the floor the fire had only barely begun to warm.
If he had thought her in danger, Vad’Alvarn would have moved more quickly. Yet he was still too far away as she tumbled to the ground like a puppet with severed strings. She fell and did not raise, hair splayed around her like a spill of some dark liquid. Thankfully, it was not blood. Rising from the bed himself, he moved to gather her up and return her to the bed. After all, she was indeed tired, it was late, and there were still many good hours until dawn. Laying her down carefully, he slipped into bed beside her, tucked her body against his, and then tucked the covers around them. She would feel better, less confused, once she awoke again.
35
Princess Curcula of the Burning Island walked the length of her chamber, a caged tigress with a snarl on her lips. In her hands, she turned a dagger, its worn grip familiar to her hand. At the sound of her door latch, she whirled and buried the blade in the wood of the door frame. Navar barely flinched. Instead, he pulled the dagger from its place and crossed the room to her. Holding it out hilt first, he said,
“And I see the Princess is in a state.”
When she reached for the dagger, he grabbed her wrist pulling her to him until she felt her own breath as it reflected off his armor.
“How could he?”
“Make yourself plain, Curcula.” Navar let her go, letting her keep the weapon. He dropped down onto a nearby cushion with a muffled clatter. “How could he what?”
“Bring that woman here. Who is she? I demand to know.” Her tone changed slipping into cajoling as she moved closer to Navar. With an oily ease, she slid onto a cushion near him, practically hiding her face in her hair. “I need to know who she is, Navar. Her weaknesses, everything.”
“Are you planning to kill her?”
“No,” she snapped. “I have to know how to circumvent her so as to remain first in his affections.”
“You will not be able to. She is the one he’s been waiting for, Cura.” Navar ran her fingers along her face, his own sad. “The one he’s sought since before you were born. You remember how disappointed he was when the light did not recognize you?”
Curcula’s mouth twisted into a grimace then she brought back her smile.
“You do.” Navar shook his head, rising from his place. “The light recognized her.”
She could not keep the snarl behind her lips. “She cannot be. He is mine. She is nothing.”
Navar closed his eyes for a moment. Then he rose.
“Where are you going?” Curcula reached for him as he headed back to the door. Navar snatched his arm away.
“Away. After all, what am I but his second? Good night, Princess.”
“Navar.”
“Good-night, Princess Curcula.”
He shut the door as she screamed his name again. He walked past several pairs of eyes peeking out from doorways in the women’s palace. The air was thick with unsaid words. Navar refused to even glance back and see if she were watching for him to return.
Curcula did not race to the door to call him back. Instead, she sat on the cushion, rubbing her wrist. Her eyes were full of the dagger in her hands and mind of the woman wh
o came to usurp her place. With a sweep of her blond hair, she rose from her seat and walked to the mirror outside of her bedroom. Running her fingers over its gilt frame, she stared at her flawless reflection. Unlike many women of the Burning Island, Curcula carried no scars. Her betrothal to the king had spared her from the more rigorous training of the warrior society.
“Perhaps that is why,” she mused as she flipped the dagger from hand to hand. “He cares more for her because she has borne the scars of war.”
Curcula watched in the mirror as the dagger seemed to lift itself to her face and gazed fascinated as the first drip of blood collected at the tip and ran over the bump of her cheekbone. The line of red became longer as the dagger bit deeper into her flesh and dragged down toward the right edge of her lip. The pain was cold, spreading over her skin. Blood oozed from the wound, becoming rivulets down her face when she pulled the blade away. Yet she did not take her eyes off the mirror. Now she was perfect, was she not? No. A single scar was hardly worth Vad’Alvarn’s attention.
This time she brought the dagger up as if to stab while placing her other palm flat against the mirror. A hiss came from between her teeth as she brought it down and then across the flesh of her arm, the redness a bright arc splattering against the mirror. Once, twice, finally a third time. The strokes were nearly the claws of a great lion or perhaps even a young dragon.
Droplets of blood slithered down the mirror to drip to the floor.
Her slashed arm felt cold, as did the strike along her cheek. Yet Curcula smirked into the mirror, her teeth white and beautiful.
“She will not take what is mine.”
When her maid came the next morning, Curcula was lying, half-asleep. Her injured arm laid across her body, blood sticking it to her nightgown. Her cheek wound gaped, a toothless mouth in her face.
“By Ancel, Mistress! Has Lord Navar done this to you?”
“No. He has done nothing. Fetch bandages and then help me to the bath.” Curcula rose, her movements slow and stiff. Still she smiled her gaze full of the bloody mirror. All sacrifices were worthy when victory was assured.
Famken, the palace healer, was sent for. Curcula sat on the cushions, blood forming a crust along her chin. When he entered, she pierced him with lidded eyes.
“What has happened, Princess?” he asked. He brought his bag to the floor beside her and opened it. Before he knelt down, he went to the door.
“Bring me clean heated water to clean the Princess’s wounds.”
He returned to sit down beside her while they waited for the water to come.
“Nothing. Stitch me up and be gone,” she snapped.
“Would you like his highness notified of your injury?”
“No. I will tell him myself.”
A woman brought a small tub to the healer and set it down. She bowed to both of them and scurried out. There was a cloth set at the edge of the tub and Famken dipped it in. Then he wiped the edge of Curcula’s chin. The blood crust broke and the cloth became red. As he wiped out the blood from the slice, he inspected the edges testing it with his fingers. New blood didn’t come spouting out so he let the cheek hang. Afterward, he wiped the cuts along her arm. Famken dropped his head and brought a needle and thread out of his bag.
The thin black thread seemed as if it came from an ebony spider. He brought the needle to his lips and breathed a brief prayer upon it before taking the edge of the princess’s cheek and bringing the edges together.
Curcula grimaced as the needle bit into her flesh. Tears welled up in the edge of her eyes. Her hands curled into fists in her lap.
Famken stitched as small as he could. His breath came slow and even.
Once it was done, he surveyed his work.
“It should not mar your beauty, Princess.”
“I do not care. Finish.”
He took her arm and set it in his lap to work on it. The cuts were long and parallel. He separated out more thread and began the short process of stitching each of the cuts closed. Once they were closed, he wrapped the arm in more cloth.
“There you are,” he said.
“Good, now go.”
He packed himself up and bowed to her before letting himself out.
Pushing her hair away from her face, Curcula headed toward the mirror. There she inspected the healerr’s work. The stitches were small, regular, and black against her skin.
Her door opened and she whirled toward it. Orsten stood in the doorway. He held his hands out to her. Curcula went to him linking her hands with him.
“Princess Curcula, what has happened?”
“Nothing.”
He came further into the room and they sank together onto the cushions of her sitting room. The old man was slow in his motions, but he got down and crossed his legs. Curcula sat on her heels.
“I came to speak with you of your husband.”
“What of him? Has something happened?”
“No, he plans to elevate his newest conquest to the title of Queen.”
With a twitch, Curcula’s hands compulsively closed into fists. For long seconds, she said nothing, then she screamed. The sound tore through the space around them and a woman, one of the maids, stuck her head in the door. When she was greeted by a cushion being thrown at the door, she hastily went away.
“I am Queen.”
“No, you are not,” Orsten said. “And I would not see you face the indignity of having to bow to some foreigner.”
“I will not bow. He is my husband; she is nothing.”
The memories of the night before and the flashes of pain she had endured as her skin went ice cold were enough to drive her to scream again. Finally, her chest heaving, she fell silent.
Orsten sat through her display with a pained expression.
“My princess,” he began. “You must listen to my counsel.”
“What can you have to say? He has abandoned me.”
“I know, my princess, surely I know this.” He held his hands out to her again, waving them in the air when she did not reach out to him at once. When she took his hands, he brought them to his lips. “I would save you from this indignity, the last of many.”
“What can you do?”
The screams must have drawn the life from her because she hung her head and seemed to barely breathe.
“There is only one way to avoid this foreign master.” He withdrew his hands from her and reached into the pouch at his hip. “I have brought you something.”
Old hands sheltered a small cerulean blue vial. He unstoppered it and brought it to the edge of her nose. She recoiled.
“What is this?”
“Poison.”
“Poison?”
“Yes, as I love you like a daughter I would not see you fall before this new Queen, so I bring you a way out. It will be painless.”
“You would have me run?”
“To spare your dignity and allow you to fall at your highest, my princess.”
Curcula stared at the blue bottle with narrowed eyes. She accepted it with slow hands. Cradling it, she brought it to her chest.
“All you must do is drink off a little and it will carry you away without pain. He will never forget your loss.”
The Princess of the Burning Island had been promised to Vad’Alvarn from the cradle. The only suitor she had ever known was him. Her dalliance with Navar was just that, nothing. Now she was being offered a way to be free of her husband whom she loved more than life.
“I cannot do this,” she said.
“It is the only way.”
“No, I will convince him of his folly. I will be Queen yet.”
36
Romkita wound the fabric around Jalcina’s midsection for the fifth time, still not happy with the way the gold stood out against the black. It was as if it were meant to be more delicate, yet this only seemed to be able to make one wide broad band around the woman’s torso. With a frustrated sound, she undid them and began again.
Her frustration did nothing for
the state of Jalcina’s nervousness. If she had not been forced to remain in one place by the servant seeing to her dress, she would have been pacing back and forth, skirt in her clutching hands as she frantically tried to calm herself. Her veil was hung so as to keep it from creasing. Soon it would be draped over her face, just as it had been the night she had met with the Light. She would be lead to Vad’Alvarn and this time, she would have a true wedding. A true wedding she wanted nothing to do with. Clammy hands clutched one another as eyes became wilder measuring the furnishings of the room as if gauging them to be used in her escape. Sensing the fear, Rom commented,
“If you run, he will only have you dragged back and you will ruin your dress and make a spectacle of yourself,” all said with a sense of exasperation. “I will never get this wrapped the way I want it.”
“Leave it,” Jalcina said, pulling away. With one large stride she paced the room. Already she wished she had not had lunch as it was bubbling and churning in her stomach, worse with each passing moment. “I do not want to do this,” she murmured from between nearly shut lips, staring to Rom as if she were somehow going to make this all better or perhaps even make it go away.
A similar scene was playing out in the private rooms of the king himself, though he was certainly more self-possessed than his bride. However, he was trying to understand why there were butterflies in his stomach whenever he thought of the woman he was to see, the woman he was going to take as a bride ringed in by torches. He was already considered a husband eight times over. Each of his kingdoms had given him a bride. Eight women who expected him to control their lives and support them, none of whom he cared for as he cared for this one. He stood, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the window toward the garden where the torches were being set up. The high priest of Ancel had already been to see him, already been given leave to collect the sacrifices Vad’Alvarn brought in to bring down the good fortune of the God onto this merger of spirit and flesh. His red eyes reflected back at him from the pane of glass, all too aware he was unsure of this.
Chains of Fate (The Fate Circle Saga Book 1) Page 23